Learning to Die

Day of Dying by Sandi Baron

The priest had been called from his vacation in Ireland to come home because his mother had passed.  He realized that she had been dying of Alzheimer’s for so many years that this was truly a blessing for her and him. His retelling of her death last Sunday reminded me of my mother.

For any of us, who have lost a parent to Alzheimer’s, we understand that the end is a blessing.  I remember as Mamma went through each stage of this dreadful disease, I wondered how long before she didn’t know me.  She brushed her hair with her toothbrush, feared her showers, and asked me who she was and who I was.  I found some wonderful last memories through the gift of art.

 I would visit her in the nearby nursing home, and take her a tablet to draw me pictures.  She would take the colored pencils in hand, and using her determination to create, she would draw a butterfly, a flower, a tree.  They all were upside down.  I supposed that is how her brain was seeing things at that time.  A few weeks later, she asked if we could paint.  I would hand her the imaginary blue cobalt tube, and she would act as if she were loading it onto an invisible pallet held in her hand.  Next, she asked for viridian green, then cadmium yellow, and light red cadmium.  How could she remember these names when she couldn’t remember how to eat?  She would paint in the air her imaginary landscapes of the sea, or a sunset, or a beach.  I loved these times of air art.  She was happy and content.

Then, after about ten years of watching this disease progress, the week of dying came.  She had taught me since I was seven years old, how to sit with the dying.  She would tell me it was the last and best part of living.  She told me to listen and feel and I could see and hear Jesus at the bedside.  That was a lot for a child, but she explained that others were afraid to sit with the dying, and I should be honored always.  She asked me if I wanted to go with her while Uncle Morris was dying.  I knew Mamma wanted to teach me something so I went.  She would whisper to me what was taking place so I would not be frightened but understand the death process.

“See, he is picking at the covers.  It is a hard decision to leave his family.”

“Why does he have to leave, Mamma?”

“It is near his designated day to go to heaven.  He knows it will be so much better and no pain and Jesus is calling him.”

“I don’t hear him.”

“Quiet, Sandi, listen with your heart.”

After many long hours and three days of sitting with Uncle Morris, Mamma whispered, “He is going through his confessions and forgiveness.  It won’t be much longer.”

“Will God forgive him?”

“Oh, yes, and anyone else that asks for that forgiveness.”

I learned so much from Uncle Morris’ deathbed experience.  Through the years, I have been privileged to sit with many others on their last part of their earthly journey. I could hear my mother’s words and was honored to be in the presence of Jesus, pray for the one dying, and listen with my heart.

This time it was Mamma who was dying.  I sat and watched her changing facial expressions, her small, knotted hands, and her closed eyes.  I was intense because she had taught me each phase that I was watching.  I knew not to touch her because she had explained touching during the final hours made the loved one cling to this world and was an obstacle in allowing them to slip into the spiritual world. I had loved on her, hugged her early in the morning and told her goodbye and that I loved her. I told her my sister, Betty, and I would be fine, and we would take care of each other.  I wanted to give her the right of a peaceful passage in these last few hours, so I just sat and watched, prayed, and read the Psalms out loud to her.

It was a tranquil time for her and a bonding time for my sister and me.  We knew we were in the presence of the Almighty.  Mamma’s day had come.  Her last breath was light and peaceful.  Jesus showed her the way, and it was a blessing for all of us.

New Orleans' heroes

Learning  About Heroes

I have been in New Orleans doing research for my memoir.  I reconnected with former colleagues and students.  Since it had been forty-five years since I had seen them, we had all changed a bit.  It is interesting how the outer body changes, but the intellect, the spirit, and personality stay the same.  As I met with each person, I learned new things and reminisced old memories.  This last week really touched me.

I will be writing posts on my interviews and discoveries and share with you my new epiphanies.  The first couple we visited is eighty-five years old.  Sarah and Jason stand about four foot eleven in heeled shoes.  I seldom have felt the love I received from them.  They insisted we come over for breakfast.  Jason picked Dennis and I up at our hotel and drove us carefully through the busy streets of New Orleans. 

As we drove , Jason told us their house had been ten feet under water , corroded with mildew, and had many broken windows and most of the roof removed by Katrina.  He explained that he and Sarah were so delighted to be one of the lucky few that returned to their original homestead.  Friends, volunteers, and their church folks totally restored their property after Katrina tried to destroy it. 

When we arrived,  Sarah opened the door and gave me a loving embrace that lingered.  She kissed my cheeks, my hands, and then my face all over.  I was overwhelmed with such an outward, loving greeting. She whispered in my ear, "This is how it should be." I smiled and kissed her all over her face and hugged her tightly.

Jason insisted we sit at the breakfast table while they prepared fried eggs, bacon, toast, and grits.  That is not an easy menu for a lady with Alzheimer’s that kept forgetting where the instant coffee was, to turn the stove on and off, and how to get the toast in the toaster.  Jason assisted her kindly and never spoke of her losses.  “Here, Sarah, the butter is to the right of the stove.”

“Oh, yes, Jason, I know that.”

“Here, Sarah let me help you put the bread in the toaster.”

“ He’s my boss,” she said as she peaked around the corner and gave me an exaggerated wink.

Watching them gave greater  importance of their sixty plus year old wedding vows.  “ For better or worse,” were those words Denny and I had recited, but at that time we had no understanding of what the future might hold. Jason and Sarah were teaching us a deeper meaning of wedding commitments. 

The eggs were all done the same.  Sarah was careful to ask each of us how we wanted our eggs, yet all were over with yokes broken.  I may have memory loss too.  I often get so carried away trying to fill breakfast orders that I too serve eggs all done the same.  Sarah forgot to toast all of the bread, and the grits just wouldn’t thicken.  She lost the instant coffee and sugar several times, but she was so happy.  She talked about her handsome man and how he helped her.

When we sat at the breakfast table, Jason began to tell me his life’s journey.  He was an exceptional black man.  His mother taught him the only way to have a better life is to get educated.   He majored in Social Studies and minored in English.  He paid his own way and jumped through a lot of racial obstacles.  I asked him how he continued and why he felt no anger or resentment.

“I just tried to do my best, work my hardest, learn the most of anyone there, and I just kept going forward.  “  Ahhh, a philosophy that many young people today would find foreign and obsolete.

Jason served in the Army and is still suffering from post dramatic stress from how he was treated as a Negro in the Army.  He said his most humiliating experience was while he was in the Army in 1951.  He had received word that his younger sister died of pneumonia, and the Army was making provisions for him to go home.  The Red Cross made all his accommodations and helped him make hotel reservations in Kansas City.  Jason arrived at the hotel and the clerk told him, “You can’t stay in this hotel.  You have to stay with other colored folks.”  Jason explained that it broke his spirit because he had been fighting for this man’s freedom, and this was his reward. 

The amazing character trait of Jason was he climbed over every obstacle.  If it was racism, he just went on.  If it was Katrina, he just went on.  Now, Sarah’s declining memory made him know that each day is more precious than the last.  Jason affected me in 1967 when we taught together and in 2012 he was still teaching me how to handle life's valleys.  He revitalized my spirit by being the strong person he had become through adversity.  Just a short little old man to some became an instant hero to me.  Sara was right, " This is how it should be."

Faith in Him, not Me

,f 

What Is In Your Hand?

While reading in Exodus this morning, I was reminded of how Moses tried everything not to be God’s messenger to the Egyptians. Moses pointed out his age, his poor command of the language,and his inabilities. God knew his heart. God knew Moses had a heart of wax that could be molded by the Spirit of God. God trusted that Moses would eventually listen to God's call. To further persuade Moses, God asked, "What's in your hand?"

For some reason, Moses' first reaction gives me comfort. I too have many times told the Lord I am not equipped to be His messenger. I too have inwardly been asked, “ What is in you hand?”

It is a sobering question to answer before the Lord. He has made me and given me my gifts, my inclinations, my heart for Him. I must be honest before Him because He knows me. He knows me so much better than I know myself.

I thought I could not manage or live through Alzheimer’s with my mother. God showed me that in my hand was optimism. I could be by her side and cheer her with my presence. I could offer her art opportunities , so she could still be involved in color. Recently, I found one of the notebooks where we had drawn butterflies, flowers, and spring blossoms. Because of her foggy mind, Mamma’s pictures were distorted, but her colors were loud and strong. I would applaud her efforts and command of color. She would smile sweetly . This brought me such joy. God knew what was in my hand.

Another time God asked me to go to Kazakhstan. At first , I was so reluctant. I drug my feet. My excuses were: I don’t know the language, it is too far away, I was taught fear of Russia as a child, I am not ready, and I did not have that much money. I sounded a bit like Moses. My lack of confidence was in me. I wasn’t giving credence to my God and His power, His words, and His favor. It took me a couple of years to trust Him totally. Finally, I listened and said, “ I am weak but You are strong. Let’s go together.”

I should have responded that way immediately. Gratefully, He knew my heart. He knew I had to prepare my spirit to rely on Him , not me. He knew what was in my hand . He knew I could be used to touch the educator’s hearts and minds in Kazakhstan. My visits there have given me growth, insights into their culture, and best friends. God knew what I needed to develop me and help them. He knew the gifts He had given me and only asked me to use them, and He would do the speaking, the demonstrations, and guide my teachings. Again, leaning on Him , following His urging brought me such joy and understanding of His power, His presence, and His love.

These difficult times have developed my faith, my trust , and love of God. I pray today that my heart is waxen, not hard like Pharaoh’s . May this week bring us all a week of listening and learning. May we answer willingly and come to realize what is in our hand.